


Epilogue

by alltheprettylittlewolves



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Shot, Political Jon Snow, Post-Canon, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, those longing looks had to mean SOMETHING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 05:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21069314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheprettylittlewolves/pseuds/alltheprettylittlewolves
Summary: A few unexpected guests attend the coronation of the Queen in the North.





	Epilogue

It is not real. Even in the hazy space between waking and sleeping, Sansa knows it to be pure fantasy, but she snuggles deeper into the furs and lets herself pretend she is in the belly of a large ship, rocked by the waves, held safe in a familiar embrace. When she breathes in, she imagines she can smell him: leather and woodsmoke and clean white soap.

She does not truly wish to be on Arya's ship, sailing away from Westeros. What she wants is the rest of the dream: Arya and Bran talking somewhere nearby while Sansa dozes in Jon's arms. What she wants is all of her family in one place.

She swallows the lump in her throat. This is her last time indulging in such fantasies. It has to be. By sunset, she will be Queen. Life will move on, as will she.

Opening her stinging eyes to the weak dawn light, she climbs out of bed. Her coronation gown hangs in the corner of the room, awaiting the last few finishing touches. Her fingers ache from so much sewing, but she will accept no assistance—not with this. She has stitched her loved ones into this dress, and not only in the symbols she has chosen. She has pilfered thread and fabric from scraps of their clothing, dancing with her ghosts. Tunics from Father, Bran, and Robb. An old gown that had belonged to Mother. One of Arya's gloves. A swaddling blanket that had once wrapped around a baby Rickon.

Jon's Night's Watch cloak.

Sitting next to the fire, she unpicks thread from one of Theon's doublets and works it into the embroidery along the hem of the skirt, so he might keep guarding her steps. In spite of the soreness of her hands, it is a relief to sew cloth instead of skin. For the moment, there are no battles, no wounded to mend.

Sandor Clegane, she remembers with an empty laugh, told her to fuck off when she sewed him up after the battle against the Dead, though he didn't attempt to shrug away. As Sansa worked on Arya with Jon hovering nearby, Tyrion spun an exaggerated version of how Sansa had slashed at her ancestors in the crypts and defended her people. Jon and Arya both smiled, but Jon was quick to change the subject when the Dragon Queen wandered within earshot.

One final stitch, and the gown is complete. Sansa licks her dry lips. Allowing her thoughts to linger on Jon makes her miss kisses she has never tasted.

He did almost kiss her, once. In the godswood, after Bran revealed the truth of Jon's parentage. Arya hugged Jon and reiterated that he was her brother, no matter what, but Sansa found herself unable to speak until Bran and Arya left them.

"I suppose the Dragon Queen will want to marry you," she finally said, when what she wanted to say was, _I love you. You__'re still a Stark to me. I love you, I love you, I love you. _"That _is_ what Targaryens do."

Jon flinched. "What she wants is the Iron Throne. At any cost." Pacing away from her, running his hands through his dark curls, he sighed. "I had a lot of time to think on Dragonstone, as I got to know her. I could see it all so clearly—how you would refuse to bend. How you would never accept Daenerys as your queen. How she would make you burn for it. I thought if I made her love me, she might spare the North. She might spare the ones I love."

Sansa placed a hand over her chest, feeling hollowed out inside. _She is our queen. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey._

"Why… Why did you not tell me before?" she asked.

"I doubted I would be able to keep my distance if you knew it was an act." He clenched his jaw. "I needed to keep my distance."

"Why?"

It took him a moment to respond. When he did, his voice was a low, rough whisper. "You know why."

Oh, yes. She knew. It had been building since she'd thrown herself into his arms at Castle Black. Always heating the air between them, never acknowledged.

"Must you still keep your distance, cousin?" she asked.

Resting his forehead against hers, Jon gripped her waist. His breath warmed her mouth as his lips moved tantalisingly close. He backed away.

"Sam knows," he said, clearing his throat. "I couldn't let him think… After his family… And, gods, I should have told you. I should… Can you forgive me?"

She kissed his temple, holding her lips there for a moment and closing her eyes, answering him without words.

"I have to carry on pretending," Jon said, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I hope to use one of Cersei's Scorpions before Daenerys has them destroyed." Shaking his head, he let out a jagged breath. "If I thought I could get away with building them under her nose, we would have at least fifty Scorpions at Winterfell."

"I would dearly love to see that," Sansa said. "And what about after? What will happen if you are successful?"

"I have no idea. I would see her tried for her crimes, if at all possible." He winced. "I may have no love for her, but I don't want to become a kin slayer."

There seemed little chance of another outcome, save the Dragon Queen setting fire to all of Westeros.

Sansa took his hand. "Your claim is better than hers."

"Aye, but I have already given up one crown. I'm no king."

"You are to me," she whispered, wanting desperately for him to be safe. If Tyrion or Varys could be turned against their queen, she thought, they could help to bring her down.

Jon gave her the saddest, sweetest smile. "Not to the rest of the North. If they had it all to do over again, they would choose to name you as their queen. You're the best they could ask for."

Later, when they stood on a pier near the ashes of her prison and he repeated that sentiment, she felt as if she would fall apart.

Sansa issued Jon's pardon the instant she returned to Winterfell from King's Landing. She will not see him punished for bringing down a tyrant. The only answer from the Wall has been silence. Rumour has it that Jon has ventured into the Far North with Tormund and Ghost. Sansa tries to hope he finds peace there.

* * *

As her handmaid helps her dress, Sansa thinks of Cersei, Littlefinger, Margaery, Shae—of every lesson she still carries with her. Cersei advised her to love no one but her children, but Sansa vows that will not be her life. She will carry on loving her family with all she has, whether they are home with her or far away. And when she must marry again, she will choose someone brave and gentle and strong, like Father wanted for her. Someone she can trust.

Shae would scoff and tell her not to trust anyone, even a husband of many years. Especially a husband. Shae would advise Sansa to keep a dagger under her pillow so she can put her future husband in his place, if necessary. Perhaps she will, in Shae's memory.

Sansa knows, now, how Shae died. Had she been aware that night in the crypts, her conversation with Tyrion would have gone quite differently. Had she known, she never would have made the colossal mistake of placing her trust in another Lannister.

Leaving thoughts of the past in her chambers, Sansa proceeds to the hall full of Northern lords and ladies. In a wave as she passes, they bend the knee. It feels like another dream, another imaginary embrace. The North is _free_. Keeping her head held high, she floats, more than walks, one hand brushing the section of her skirt that borrowed thread from Robb's tunic.

And then, as swords are raised overhead and the chants of _Queen in the North_ ring out, Sansa sees them standing just outside the entrance of the hall: Arya, Ghost, Jon. Sansa's heart flutters like the little bird she used to pretend to be. Arya winks as both she and Jon kneel.

A raven perches on Ghost's back. Apart from Sansa, only Meera Reed notices the unexpected visitors. Under Meera's gaze, the raven goes very still.

Jon, Arya, and Ghost turn and walk away before anyone else is alerted to their presence. Sansa does not leap up and chase after them, but it is a very near thing. Everything in her wants to run and shout as she forces herself to proceed calmly to the modest feast.

Her regal dignity does not hold when she sees Arya there. Sansa flies towards her sister, her eyes welling up with tears. The force of her embrace makes Arya stumble back a few steps.

"Your Grace," Arya says with a grin, dropping into a sloppy curtsy.

"Oh, stop that. What are you doing here?"

_And where did Jon go?_

"Well, I thought I should be present for at least _one_ of my siblings' coronations," Arya says. "Are you surprised?"

"Of course I am. I thought you would be gone by now, sailing into the unknown." Sansa cannot conceal the way her voice breaks on the word _gone._

Arya's smile softens. "I leave tomorrow. I will come back. You know that, right? I promise I will bring you exotic spices and fabrics in every colour and plenty of new songs and stories."

Sansa ducks her head. "What song could be better than those inspired by the Hero of Winterfell?"

"Hmm. I prefer the song I heard about the Queen who freed the North." Reaching up, Arya taps the head of one of the direwolves on Sansa's crown. "Though I do like the one in which I fought off dozens of giant spiders before I ended the Night King. It's entirely accurate, of course."

The raven interrupts Sansa's laughter, landing on her shoulder and letting out a soft _caw_ in greeting.

"Hello, Bran," Sansa says, for she has no doubt it is him.

The raven extends one spindly leg, offering her the scroll that is tied there. Unrolling it, she finds her little brother's untidy scrawl instead of Tyrion's flowing script.

_Dear Sansa,_

_Reconstruction progresses slowly in King_ _'s Landing, but the Dothraki are nearly back in their Great Grass Sea. The Unsullied have arrived in Naath._

_What remains of the Wall is now under your rule, but should you have need of more men to manage it, the Six Kingdoms will be happy to provide. Once the worst of winter has passed, we should meet for an in-depth discussion of trade agreements. Perhaps at Moat Cailin? I would not ask you to venture too far South. I know I would be unsuccessful if I did._

_I look forward to my next journey North._

—_Bran_

Moat Cailin. Not far from Meera Reed's home. Hope bubbles up inside Sansa, no matter how she tries to suppress it. Something of her little brother might yet remain alongside the Three-Eyed Raven. She traces a finger over his signature, grateful that he simply wrote _Bran_ and _Sansa _rather than using their official titles.

"Naath?" Sansa says. "The Unsullied went to _Naath_?"

Arya shrugs.

Did no one inform Grey Worm that all non-natives succumb to Butterfly Fever on Naath? The raven bumps its head against Sansa's cheek. Glancing back at the letter, she catches her lower lip between her teeth.

_What remains of the Wall is now under your rule. _She would have issued her pardon with or without Bran's blessing, but having the King of the Six Kingdoms on her side is preferable.

"Where is Jon?" Sansa asks.

"Waiting for you in your solar. He didn't want to cause a scene."

Sansa talks and dances with her people and delights in her sister's company, but no other feast has ever passed so slowly. Even so, when the celebrations have ended and she finds herself outside her own chambers, she does not feel entirely ready. Steadying herself, she opens the door.

Jon stands as she enters, then immediately drops to one knee.

"Get up," Sansa says with a choked laugh.

It is difficult to say who moves first, but scarcely a breath later, she is in his arms. He places a hand low on her back and pulls her tight against him as they sway together. Closing her eyes, Sansa breathes in the scent of leather, woodsmoke, and soap. He is here—safe and real—and her heart is too full. As he draws back, Jon drops a lingering kiss to her forehead.

"New dress?" he asks with a lopsided, teasing smile.

"I made it myself. Do you like it?"

Nodding, Jon looks at the bodice. "I like the tree bit."

"I have no new cloak to give you this time, but I can make one." Sansa tugs on his arm, her voice trembling slightly. "Will you stay?"

"Aye," Jon says. "I will." As he leans closer, his gaze locks with hers. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

Summoning up all of her courage, Sansa closes the distance between them. Her lips barely skim over his, more of a question than a kiss. Jon answers by cradling her face between his hands, by murmuring her name, by pressing his mouth against hers.

_Life is not a song, sweetling_. Littlefinger said those words to her, so long ago it feels like another life. He was right, but _this_ is a song. Jon's kiss is so sweet and gentle, it could almost make her believe in all of the stories she used to love.

"I did not expect to be welcomed like this," he says, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks.

"No?"

Some part of him, she knows, will always be that boy who was banished to a shadowy corner during feasts.

"Well," he says, "I did hope."

Sansa is all smiles as he brings his lips back to hers. She is the one who turns it from tender to hungry, who brushes her tongue against Jon's. He tastes like warm spiced wine. When he says her name again, it sounds like a plea for more.

There is much they need to say—guilt and pain they need to put to rest—but she wants none of it this night. The unspoken words will keep. For now, all she wants is Jon trailing heated kisses down her neck, Jon looking at her as if she is precious to him, Jon holding her so close.

Regrettably, Jon has other ideas about how their evening should proceed.

"I don't deserve your pardon," he says, drawing back.

That he blames himself for the massacre of King's Landing is ludicrous. He did not give that hateful command after the bells rang out surrender.

"Fine, if you insist on being punished, let your sentence match Tyrion's," Sansa says with a huff. "I can sentence you to serve as my Hand, if you like."

Instead of scowling and falling into a predictable argument, Jon smiles at her. "Serving you for the rest of my days wouldn't be any sort of punishment. I said I don't deserve your pardon, not that I will refuse it." Something in his expression turns almost shy. He drops a quick kiss to her mouth before he says, "I want to do this properly. Would the North accept a former bastard, former king, and former exile courting their queen?"

Sansa's belly swoops. The warmth that tingles through her at his words feels like it could last all winter. Already, she has visions of Jon waiting for her in the godswood, wearing a new cloak sewn by her hands. She can see the children she once dreamed of: boys who look like her brothers, a girl who is a tiny version of her sister.

"I will convince them," she says. In all honesty, she thinks the fact that his sire was a Targaryen will produce the most objections. "The lords and I have agreed that my husband will be Prince Consort. He will take the name Stark, as will our children."

To her surprise, it is the mention of children that makes Jon's face light up, not the mention of him becoming a Stark. The truth that beams from him is too beautiful to exist in this world: he would love her as a Snow, as a Stark, as someone without any name at all. He loves her in a way she thought forever barred to her. Not for her claim, but because she is Sansa.

Concern flickers over Jon's face as a tear slips down her cheek. She smiles and kisses him again to chase his worries away. Gods, she wants to fold this moment into a letter and send it to that frightened girl in King's Landing who was beaten into believing that monsters would always win. She wants to tell her that yes, there are monsters, but the truest knight to ever live is a woman named Brienne, and heroes can be found in the most unlikely of places. She wants to sing to her of this love and put a few stars back in her eyes.

This song is real, and it is only beginning.


End file.
